Angel, Where in the World Have you Been Hiding?
by RachyBaby09
Summary: Little Christine Daaé & her Angel of Music meet for the first time. ONESHOT. Darn adorable!


_(a/n: Christine is 7 years old, mourning her father's death in Opera Populaire's chapel. This oneshot is when Christine hears Erik's voice for the very first time…and he becomes her beloved Angel of Music!_

_I've pretty much fallen head over heels for oneshots. They are so wonderfully complete in themselves. This phic was inspired by a chapter from one of my early phics. I think you'll enjoy it. It's pretty adorable…and hopefully gives depth to Christine and Erik's exquisite bond. You'll notice some Kay references. __Thanks!)_

* * *

_Angel, Where in the World Have you Been Hiding?_

It was picturesque. Unruly, chocolate curls cushioned a pudgy face with promising beauty. Eyes, blue and clear as the ocean's depths, swelled with imminent tears. A sweet, little girl fought to keep them back while mourning her loss.

Christine Daaé knelt respectfully before the stone altar, head bowed, hands tightly bound in prayer. A small candle sat beside her. Christine trembled, half from cold, half from fear; she had grown afraid of the dark since her papa's passing. Christine shivered and moved the candle nearer to herself; not much could be seen outside of its faint ring of light.

Christine gazed thoughtfully into the flame, seeing nothing. She was very lonesome and scared. The chapel was so cold and dim; far from holy. And it was so, so quiet! So still and lifeless! She would never find sanctuary in this wretched tomb! What _was_ this dark abyss?

Yet, the chapel remained the only proper place for Christine to pray upon her papa. His distant memory was her one sense of peace. Beyond his grave, Christine's papa remained the light within her darkness.

A hauntingly unnatural chill swept through the mourning child. She sheltered herself within the warmth of her arms, massaging, victim to winter's brutal sting.

Chapel or no chapel; Opera Populaire always seemed to carry a ghostly appeal. It was rumored to be haunted. The mighty 'Phantom' was said to be Opera Populaire's resident ghost…and for over two decades! Imagine that! Surely, haunting superstitious ballerinas and pudgy stagehands would become rather boring…sooner or later. But Christine paid no heed to the chorus brats' elaborate tales nor Buquet's horrific ghost stories.

She didn't believe in ghosts. Angels, _ye__s. _Phantoms, _no!_

"Oh, Papa…" Christine cried beneath her breath. She sniffled, sweeping away her stubborn sea of tears, rubbing puffy and swollen eyelids. She struggled to keep her upper lip stiff, just as Papa once said she should.

"Papa…" Christine continued, her voice a bit louder. "I miss you so. I am lonely. No one will be my friend. Everyone is very cruel. They laugh at me!…And say I dance like a pigeon-toed cow! Oh! They hide my ballet slippers…and tell me the Phantom stole them away…and they stuff toads in my pillow! The poor creature was croaking like mad! He was so unhappy! I imagine a pillowcase is rather dark…I'm sure he was frightened. I would be, too."

Christine grinned. "Somehow the little guy ended up in La Carlotta's hat box. They would make for nice companions, don't you think so? It's dreadful, Papa! She croaks like a toad when she sings. I know it's a terrible, terrible, ugly thing to say…to say La Carlotta sings like a toad…but she really, really does, Papa!"

Brushing out her skirts, Christine passionately recited, "I named the poor, unhappy toad _'Monsieur Claude-Lucas-Van-Hutton-Cheswickel Fitz Gerald Boopit Senior.'_ I am quite certain he likes it."

Christine crinkled her brow and scratched her head in intense reckoning. "Who do you suppose would do such a clever, clever, _brave_ thing?—Who would ever, ever stash '_Monsieur Claude-Lucas-Van-Hutton-Cheswickel Fitz Gerald Boopit Senior' _in the PRIMA DONNA'S hat box!" She gasped, eyes wide as saucers. "Perhaps, she,"—Christine's cheeks baked at her next very words—"…Or _he_ would like to be my friend! Oh, I wish Raoul could have seen Carlotta's face! I was so sure she was going to pop. TeeHeehee. She fainted, too! Bonk!…I actually felt rather sorry for her."

Christine was surprised to find herself giggling. She hadn't giggled in months! Christine ended the tale with a shrug and defeated sigh. "Carlotta swears it was the Phantom. If there _is _a Phantom…well, I do not believe he's too fond of her."

Christine pursed her lips in a girlish pout. She huffed, tossing her curls to and fro with a melodramatic sigh. "Monsieur Phantom…if you are, indeed, _real_…you are very mischievous! Very mischievous, indeed! Hmph. I always imagined a Phantom to be positively frightful! But you, Sir Phantom, sound more angel than ghost!"

She drew a red scarf from the pocket of her skirt—where she was sure it was safely tucked away. Christine brought it up to her freckled nose, inhaling the sea-air which embedded its fabric. She wrapped the faded cloth snugly about her fingertips. A soft, nostalgic smile claimed her lips as she remembered her charming sweetheart. Oh! He was such a little gentleman! Not to mention a fine playfellow! But, she quickly frowned—Christine could not help but wonder; were she and Raoul to ever meet again? After all, she was now a chorus brat, and he was a noble heir.

Her cheeks blushed mercilessly, complexion turning more scarlet than her scarf. She knew he had a _big crush_ on her. Silly Raoul; he had always been far too shy to confesses his love. But Christine had been quite the little devil over her earliest years…taunting the poor chap had been a very pleasant pastime. After the death of her papa, Christine and her Raoul instantly lost all contact. The fun loving, bright eyed, singing Swedish girl had died.

Before the tragedy, Raoul de Chagny_ had always_ found a way for their adventures to not be stifled. Climbing fire escapes in vain…tossing pebbles at Little Lotte's bedchamber window—praying the glass would not betray his affection and shatter…fetching scarves from the whispering sea—before he barely knew how to swim…arranging a picnic rendezvous in Daaé's attic—when her papa was fast asleep…sneaking beautiful, beautiful musical compositions from the de Chagny library—after daddy Daaé had fallen ill and no longer had strength to leave their flat to fetch fresh ones…daring to pick the most vibrant of roses from the gardens—in romantic hopes to sweep his lovely Lotte off of her ballerina feet…

Poor lad. What lengths a smitten boy will go to for his lady love! And it had been a fierce struggle, indeed! A young nobleman had no place frolicking with a poor Swedish girl.

Raoul had been her playmate, dearest friend, and childhood sweetheart. Oh! The magical simplicity of first love!

Christine sighed, harnessing back her sniffles and hiccoughs; Raoul and her papa had been her one companion. She missed both of the dearly. The ballet rats had not taken nicely to Christine.

Christine forced a soft smile as she dabbed away her tears with the precious scarf of long ago. She blew her bothered nose into its gentle fabric…then frowned, regretting she had done so.

"I have lit a candle for you, Papa."

Christine straightened out her bubbly skirts, clearing her throat. Softly, she hummed a sweet melody. It was a lovely Swedish lullaby. Her papa often had sung it to her when she woke from a nightmare.

Christine's eyes fell closed, returning to better, happier times. Warm fireplaces…hunting for shiny seashells and sand crabs along the shore…legends of beautiful Angels and their blessed protégés…violin melodies and soothing lullabies—Christine wrinkled her nose and huffed, struggling to recall _that _lullaby's words. Christine sighed, feeling guilty for forgetting such a thing. How could she? Without her papa's violin to accompany, it would forever remain a faded memory…

Nonetheless, she continued to hum, comforted by the familiar tune. Anything was better than silence.

Her eyes jumped open, widening three sizes; the most beautiful, gentle hum echoed within the chapel's cold. It warmed Christine; melted her frown into a smile. But, after a moment, Christine abandoned her new oblivion.

She was terribly frightened! Was she not alone? Who was there! There was no way of knowing; shadows snuffed any hope for light. Christine began to tremble, half in fear, half from the cold. Was the Phantom of the Opera real? She searched about the chapel, her papa's candle fiercely shaking in her grip.

The mysterious hum melted into song. Beautiful, beautiful song! A smile of relief and excitement flooded her cheeks; the lyrics! The delightful voice sang the forgotten lyrics so flawlessly!

Christine hummed again, joy overpowering fear. Her hum grew in confidence with each and every note. It served as musical accompaniment to the adorable voice. Though, accompaniment was unneeded; _the voice was music!_ After a beautiful moment, Christine fell perfectly silent. The darkness claimed her. She could not have been more bewildered…more confused…more helpless. The song was of Swedish origin, nearly foreign to France.

Hesitantly, "Papa…?"

Complete silence. Loud silence! Christine shivered a bit, goose flesh arms serving as a shield.

The humming resumed, shattering the heavy silence and thick air. No, not Papa, Christine declared—this voice was flawless, **_heavenly_**…angelic. By far, the sweetest sound to ever grace her little ears. The stone walls amplified its glory, transforming the chapel into something pleasant. Something beautiful and pure. It became her safe haven.

What human could possibly be blessed with such a voice? She nearly wept from its beauty. It was the voice of Heaven.

Feeling beyond foolish, "It is you?…my…Angel…of Music…?"

The quiet confirmed her silliness; she rose quickly to her feet, praying she would never 'meet eyes' with the voice. She'd simply die of embarrassment! Just think! The Angel of Music…in the grand Opera Populaire's chapel!

Christine decided that she was in desperate need of rest.

She brought her papa's candle close to her lips, softly blowing. Darkness. The delightful singing emerged from the shadows, louder and more glorious then before. It seemed to lighten the chapel. A strange warmth blanketed Christine.

She stepped towards the singing, disembodied voice. It shifted to the right! Christine followed. Then, it shifted square behind her! She turned towards it in frenzy; Christine's hand lunged forward, searching for the face of the voice. Only air—what madness! She needed sleep!

Christine just knew it! She was the butt-end of a cruel, cruel joke! "…who's there!…please, do show yourself! I am most frightened! I-I don't like the dark."

"Darkness can be very beautiful…when perceived beneath a gentle light and open heart. What is your name, my child?"

Christine followed after the voice's soft and comforting melody. It led her to the altar. Suddenly, as if by magic, a soft illumination warmed the darkness. But_…_finding the light's source was an impossible, rather spooky mystery_…_

"Oh, my! Where are you…?" Christine's gaze timidly scanned her surroundings, expecting to meet her clever deceiver. No one! Only Christine Daaé and her madness!

"Your name, child?" She gasped; even within the light, the voice came from the altar! And she was still all alone!

"…C-Christine…D-Daaé."

Erik was overtaken by shock; Daaé, the Swedish violinist.

The voice recited her name through a rich tone, _"Christine…" _A lonely quiet. Then, again, equally rich, _"Christine Daaé…"_

Christine tensed, backing from the talking altar, trying to make sense of such an incredible phenomenon.

"Your father_…_he was an exquisite violinist, young dear. Violin_…_a truly beautiful instrument_…_though, sad, for they weep."

Never more frightened than at that moment, Christine collected her skirts in a rush, fleeing the haunted chapel, making way for the dormitories. (Where she was expected several hours ago.) She paralyzed beneath the chapel's archway after several steps_…_

Gently, "I have frightened you. You shan't be scared, Christine_…_I only wished to be of comfort. I have heard your tears. You miss your papa, child."

"I-I do. Very much so." Choking on tears, "A-are you…my Angel?"

Inquisitively, "…Angel?" Christine Daaé was quite confusing…Erik decided.

Her cheeks blushed a deep scarlet. "Oh…n-never mind…I…apologize. It's only…well, your voice—oh, it is so lovely! Never have I heard_…_" Christine shuffled uncomfortably before completing her thought. "…something so beautiful…yet, so terribly sad."

Erik could not respond. For the first time, he couldn't seem to find his voice. He was immensely touched; never had someone shown sympathy for his sorrow.

But he just as soon winced; conversation was painfully uncomfortable! He hadn't spoken with anyone for years. Up above, he was heard only through his infamous 'love' letters. Madame Giry was the closest Erik ever had to a friend…and even she knew him as merely a ghost. Music was his one companion.

Little Giry embraced her mother's kind and gentle heart. Erik decided he would find a way for Meg and Christine to become best friends.

Christine pouted, planting a hand to her wiggling hip. Spouting with childish attitude and sarcasm, "Do tell me who you are, monsieur, if you are, in fact, not my Angel of Music! And, why do you not show yourself? You are not very nice. I don't think I like you very much." Christine crossed her arms, toe fiercely drumming. "I don't think I like you at all."

"How old are you, my child?"

"I-I am seven…why do you so much as ask? Please—why do you wish to frighten me so? I am very scared…"

Seven years old? Orphaned? Erik's remaining soul pained for the young child's heartache and despair. He painfully ached for her, cursing whatever 'God' dared to perform such a crime. She was clearly lost without her papa. The world would suffocate her. And Erik was no stranger to loneliness.

Erik danced with his thoughts. He was certainly an opera ghost. (After all, every good opera house needs a resident ghost.) Could he not be Christine Daaé's angel, as well? It would be a nice change…being appreciated and praised—rather than loathed and feared. Humanity hated him, and Erik hated humanity.

Besides, Christine was quite amusing. She had a very sweet voice.

"I am, little Christine…your Angel of Music…"

She would be the face of his song. Poor, unhappy Christine would be his mask. Christine Daaé could give Erik's music wings. He could give her voice soul. Together, they would be heard. Together, they would sing the darkness away.

Christine's face brightened at such wonderful words. She echoed them in a whisper, her jaw completely ajar. "My…my Angel of Music…"

She turned swiftly on her heel, joining her Angel's pretty voice, excitement in her step.

"Oh, boy! Papa promised you were to come! I thought he had forgotten to send you…but you are here! You have come! You truly have! Thank you, Papa! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

For the first time in decades, Erik caught himself chuckling.

He smiled at the new happiness in her voice. She had resurrected. But he quickly frowned, bitterly kicking the cold, stone wall which stood between him and Christine. If only he could _see_ her happiness!

"Oh, my Angel of Music! What endless longings…! I have really missed singing. I really, really, really have. I shall do my best! Cross my heart!…My Papa taught me my scales…I only hope I still remember…"

"Your voice is quite charming… won't you sing for me, my child?"

Blushing, "I-I…haven't sung since before my father…" Christine stifled back a tear. "Darn these t-tears! I am sorry. Please do forgive me, my Angel." Christine crinkled her forehead in thought. "Well…I did sing once. Sorelli laughed at me…and said I sounded like a limping sparrow! Then, she said if I ever should sing again…'_the Phantom _was gonna come and drag me to his underground home'…and keep me there forever and ever and ever! And ever! Y-you wouldn't let the P-P-Phantom take me underground…would you, Angel? Good, Heavens! I would simply faint…like a Prima Donna! "

An intense, tragic silence.

"I will never let harm come of you, Christine. I shall forever be your guide and guardian."

Christine smiled, hands wringing, lips curving into a proud smile. "But, nothing matters, now. Nothing, nothing, nothing!_ I got you._ An Angel as my maestro!"

Erik sighed beautifully.

"Your papa smiles down on you. He is very proud." Little Christine wept happy tears.

Erik cleared his throat, attempting an authoritative tone. He spoke with a fresh purpose for his living.

"And it is I, your Angel of Music, whom has come by night to bring your song to life, Christine. Sing, child, you must sing for me! Sing for your Angel of Music! For, one day, my little Christine Daaé, your song shall light all of Paris!"


End file.
